


distance

by celoica



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Second Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 13:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18966493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celoica/pseuds/celoica
Summary: Billy had been finding God inside boys’ mouths long before Steve Harrington.





	distance

Billy had been finding God inside boys’ mouths long before Steve Harrington.

He’d been twelve the first time he’d kissed a boy. He didn’t remember his name, but he’d tasted mint gum and something earthy. They’d kissed after confession, while Billy’s fingers were still heavy with the weight of Hail Marys.

The second had been named Johnny. The third was Dan. The fourth was a man, almost twice his age, that he barely remembered. Billy had stopped keeping names and keeping tally after that. His mom had used to say something like that when she’d been alive, still breathing, face undamaged by the wreckage of a windshield.

 _God doesn’t keep score_ , she’d say when she dragged him to church. He’d always felt uncomfortable there, itchy under the skin, a bone-deep throb he could never scratch at.

Tommy was fine. He used too much tongue, left Billy wanting to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but he was  decent enough when he’d chewed on the end of a blunt and gave Billy the kind of hazy-eyed look that all boys so deep in the closet gave him. That beck-and-call look. That _come here and forget about it when we’re done_ look.

Even Jesse Woodland, the skinny stick of a kid who won a math scholarship to the big fucking city. He’d tasted like beer and desperation, like want that Billy could lick away and keep inside himself, but he’d turned away like they all did. Kept his mouth to himself after Laurie’s party, kept Billy at a distance because drunken worship was one thing, but admitting what he wanted in the light of day was too much.

He wasn’t even that cute. Scrawny, brown-haired and -eyed, boring like the rest of Cowshit, Indiana. Billy still wanted to lay him out like an altar, find a little bit of religion in someone wanting him back.

Steve Harrington was the last boy he’d ever kissed. It had been three months, six days and three hours. Three months, six days and three hours since Steve had kissed him, bloody and bruised, in the backseat of his Camaro. Three months, six days and three hours since they both thought they were going to die and Billy hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open, head spinning and dizzy with the desire to touch something— _someone_ —real before he was eaten alive.

And then they hadn’t died, at all. Steve’s bloody spit had still been in his mouth when that little fucking girl had crawled from the pit of Hell and bled from her eyes, shattered every pane of glass in Hawkins with her scream and vibrated the vicious-looking _thing_ out of existence.

And then Steve forgot about it, like they always did.

It pissed him off. Shook him from the inside out. Billy knew blood and bruised knuckles, biting kisses and burning-hot hickeys on the edge of his collarbone. Steve had kissed him delicately, like cracked china, like he was already bruised. Like he was in need of gentle.

“Get _fucked_ , Harrington,” Billy snapped, words slurred. He shoved at Steve’s shoulders, bottle kissing a damp imprint into Steve’s shirt.

Steve blinked at him, steady on his feet. Planted. Billy wished he’d never said shit to him.

“You’re drunk,” Steve said.

“Yeah, no shit. What the hell did I just say? Get away from me.”

“Get fucked.”

Billy squinted, resting the heel of his palm on Steve’s shoulder. He was warm under his shirt. It burned into Billy. “What?”

“You said get fucked,” Steve said slowly, like he was stupid (he was, God, he was stupid, so stupid, to ever think this was anything, to ever think someone could _want him back_ —), “not get away.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Not when you’re saying shit you don’t mean.”

Billy bumped his hand against Steve’s jaw, watched his face for a flinch. Steve’s eyes narrowed instead. Billy frowned. “You’re an asshole and I hate you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You don’t mean it.”                                                                                            

Billy snorted and took a few steps back, bumping into the Camaro. He flung a hand behind him, slapped it down on the sun-soaked hood to steady himself. Steady didn’t come for a few long seconds, and he leaned back against it for support.

Steve was frowning at him again, deeper now. “What?” Billy asked. He took a swig of his drink. It tasted like warm piss. He took another.

“You’re so…drunk.”

“ _And_?”

“It’s not even noon,” Steve said, mouth twisted, eyebrows pinched together. “It’s not even twelve and you’re _drunk_.”

Billy kissed his teeth and leaned back. He slipped, banging his elbow on the hood of the Camaro. He cursed, hissed under his breath, and jerked away from Steve’s gentle hands, holding him steady by the shoulders.

He pushed at him again, shoved at his shoulders and growled until Steve stepped back, wary. “Don’t _touch_ me.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Steve said, hands raised in defense. Palms up, fingers spread. White jagged scars along the fleshy part under his thumb, where one of the demon-dogs had gotten their tar-stained teeth into him. Billy had a matching set on his left thigh.

“Nothing!”

“Not nothing,” Steve said, careful, gentle. Like Billy would snap under something harder than a low whisper. “Not nothing isn’t—it isn’t this. What the hell is going on?”

He bit his lip and his tongue, tasted blood because it hurt to taste Steve in his mouth. Months and he could taste it, chased down with cheap beer and cheaper liquor, with too many cigarettes and bright mint gum. Admitting it made him a whiny little bitch. Crying over a boy who didn’t like him back was stupid, and telling the boy was even stupider.

Billy snarled, lip peeling back from his teeth like a dog. “What’s it fucking matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

“Since when? You didn’t give a fuck a week ago or a week before that.”

“What?” Steve had the gull to look wounded, brows creased.

“You know fucking _what_ ,” Billy snapped. “You haven’t talk to me in _weeks_ and you care what I’m fuckin’ doin’?”

Steve licked his mouth, pink tongue touching his dry lips. Billy wanted to chase it with his own. He wanted to bite it off with his teeth.

Steve dragged a hand over his face, eyes screwed shut. “You haven’t been easy to talk to. You ran away the last time.”

“I didn’t run away!”

“You literally got in the car and drove off when I wanted to talk.”

The anxious twist in his belly was back, snaking its way up and lodging itself in his throat. He felt sick. He felt like he was going to die, and the alcohol only rolled in his stomach like poison.

“That’s not—”

“What happened?” Steve breathed deeply through his nose and crossed his arms. “I said _can we talk_ and you ran away.”

Billy had, in a way. The way where he had stuttered on his own words and choked out a _we can forget about it_ while he’d fumbled with his keys. Steve had said something like _wait_ , but Billy had been in the front seat by then, white noise in his ears.

“Okay,” Billy agreed, “but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t—? Do you even hear yourself?”

“You could’ve tried again if it meant that much to you.”

“I _tried_ ,” Steve snapped, a red flush spreading across his cheeks, fingers curling into fists. Billy bit the inside of his cheek as Steve swayed, an aborted step forward. “I tried, okay? I went to your house and you snuck out the window. I waited before your classes and you’d just skip. I left notes in your locker and you ignored them. I followed you into that stupid fucking party at Kelly’s and you _locked yourself in the bathroom_.”

“That wasn’t—”

“What?” Steve demanded, and took the step forward, crowding into Billy’s space. Billy leaned back, fingers tight on the bottle in hand. “That wasn’t _what_? I tried and you didn’t—and now Max is crying about you fucking off all day and night like it’s my problem.”

Billy reared back like he’d been hit. Somewhere between the alcohol tickling bad thoughts into his head and the ones that lived there permanently was every overplayed could-be Billy had replayed like a horror movie since that night.

It flicked like a switch. Teetering on the edge of viciousness, he fell over it. He turned the bottle up, sloshed cheap beer over his wrist and soaked the sleeves of his shirt. It hit Steve in the chest with a hard thunk beneath the collarbones, connecting with certainty as Billy slapped his palm over Steve’s shoulder and shoved.

Steve coughed, spat out a muddled curse that was more surprised than pissed. Steve struggled, wheezed out a strangled noise as Billy tossed the bottle to the side and threw a punch. His knuckles kissed Steve’s cheek, slammed into the rocky sand beneath. His knuckles stung, screamed at him as grit and dirt split dragged over the skin.

Beneath him, Steve struggled, got his elbow jammed up in the column of Billy’s throat and pushed until Billy choked. Billy bit his hand. Steve raked his nails over Billy’s cheek, left blood dripping over his chin. Billy howled, Steve hissed between clenched teeth; they rolled across the dirt road.

Steve kicked, jammed his knee against Billy’s hipbone with a fumbling move. It burned through his cores, turned his vision white, and he slapped Steve, palm connecting to cheek.

They collided into each other, climbed across each others bodies with nails and teeth and sharp elbows. They kicked up a fuss, scarred up their shirts with dirt and rocks and specks of blood from Steve’s lip.

They fought across the road, in the dirt, until they weren’t fighting anymore.

Somewhere between the tangle of limbs and grunts Steve trapped Billy’s lower lip between his teeth, bit down until Billy gasped out his hurt. He was inside him so suddenly—tongue delving in, passing blood along with spit as Billy slipped, palms dragging hot-bright pain as the gravel road dug holes into his skin.

Steve tasted like blood and spit and sin, all those things that Billy had believed could be wiped away with holy water. He tasted like a dream, like something more than himself—like something more than anyone else who’d been inside Billy.

He kissed like a dream, sharp teeth and rough hands, taking Billy’s frozen face in his hands, holding him still. Perched atop Steve, mouth slack and brain filled with nothing but white noise, Billy felt the world click into place, slotting together like pieces from a puzzle.

He kissed Steve, frantic and desperate, like water was filling his lungs and the only oxygen lived inside Steve’s chest. It was messy—tongue and teeth slipped together, collided and bumped. Steve’s teeth grazed Billy’s lip, caught it and bit down. He sucked at it until it throbbed. Billy groaned, knees skidding on the dirt as he ground down, scrambled his hands across the collar of Steve’s shirt to feel his skin.

It was in the air, hot and pulsing, filling Billy with a white noise-buzz until there was nothing but Steve’s hand riding up his shirt, the other on his ass, fingers dug in.

It was hot, and then warm, and then a pleasant heat that fluttered down Billy’s spine. It was pulsing until it tingled, until he was petting Steve’s hair instead of clutching, until he was kissing him slow and sweet, kissing over Steve’s swollen lip.

Billy settled on him, Steve’s hands curled at his hips, sweeping lazy thumbs at the tender slip of skin between jeans and shirt. Steve kissed his mouth, his cheek, the dip of his chin and down his jaw. Billy’s dick twitched, thick against the seam of his fly. He ignored it, caught Steve’s mouth again, kissed him like a dream, like something bigger than himself.

His cheek ached as he settled it over Steve’s heart, ear pressed to his chest. His heart thudded against his mouth, the taste of blood and cotton and Steve caught on his tongue as he closed his eyes.

Steve’s hands threaded through his hair, tugged through the tangle of hairspray and curls.

“I didn’t mean it,” Steve said, soft, words as swollen as his lips.

Billy closed his eyes, breathed through his nose. “I know.”

“You kept running—”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” Billy said, fitting his fingers between them, curling into the hem of Steve’s shirt. His voice was low, like he could hold the words close to himself. “Don’t speak. Not now. Just—hold me for a while.”

Steve stayed silent, fingers gentle at Billy’s temples. Billy screwed his eyes shut.

“Okay,” Steve said, finally, and a great weight lifted from Billy’s chest. “Just come here, okay? You wouldn’t let me kiss you again.”

Steve sighed, a soft exhale, and Billy opened his eyes. He tipped his head back, watched Steve look at him, until Steve said, “I just want to kiss you.”

Billy sighed too, then, and crawled up to kiss Steve's mouth.

He tasted like God.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on Tumblr @ celoica.


End file.
